


For Answers in the Pages

by littledust



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Field Trip, M/M, Museums, Mutant Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Museum of Mutant History opens, Erik coordinates a field trip. The day does not go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Answers in the Pages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helens78](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/gifts).



> Thank you for the fabulous prompts, helens78! Since the timeline for XMFC/X1-X3 is screwy, I aged (or de-aged) Xavier Academy students to fit my purposes. The title comes from "Us" by Regina Spektor.

On weekends, Erik still lays claim to his classroom, one window seat in particular. The early morning sunlight warms him despite the actual temperature outside. Frost rimes the stubbled November grass and the trees bare their branches to a sky that glows a familiar shade of blue. Erik smiles. Perhaps he'll make breakfast after he finishes a chapter in his book.

"Professor Lehnsherr! Professor Lehnsherr! Mail for you!"

Kitty charges in, envelopes from yesterday clutched in her arms. Erik shakes off the deja vu (how many little girls have run to bring him mail over the years?) and pats the empty half of the window seat. "We made sure to save the mail for you while you were at the orthodontist."

In such close proximity, Erik can feel Kitty poke at her newly tightened braces with her tongue. Her gums must be tender, and he has to resist the impulse to loosen them just a little. He and Kitty share a wince, then she presses some sort of flyer into his hands. "Professor Xavier says don't throw this one away," she says sternly.

"We'll see about that," Erik says, expecting yet another card wishing him a Merry Christmas, but then he turns over the neatly scripted invitation to some social event and takes another look at the ad on the reverse side. "The Museum of Mutant History is pleased to announce its grand opening," he reads, excitement creeping into his voice. Trust a mutant-run organization to step up its production schedule and open early rather than late. The writing on the back turns out to be a personal invitation from the museum's curator, Rachel Keller.

"Is that where you sent all those boxes?" Kitty asks, referring to the six-month cleaning extravaganza that took place as Erik, Charles, and some of the first students at the Xavier-Lehnsherr Academy for Gifted Children hunted for historical artifacts in the mansion. Erik was able to find his in an instant, of course, since he keeps important letters and a few photographs in a shoebox in his closet. Charles was able to supply a great deal of artifacts, pack rat that he is, but they had to find everything first.

"Yes. This school has made history, you know. There used to be no schools for mutants. Mutants used to have to hide, and some feel as though they still have to." Experience stops Erik before he elaborates further; no need to give Kitty the nightmares that used to wake up Ororo and Jean and too many other students. "That's why all the grown-ups were so excited about this museum. Much of mutant history has been lost to secrecy and shame, but now everyone who visits has the opportunity to learn."

"Is there going to be a party?" Kitty wants to know.

Erik sighs. "Yes, there will be a party. This invitation is just for Charles and me, though."

"But I want to go to the party, too!"

It isn't long before Kitty runs off to deliver the rest of her mail, but her indignant protest lingers in Erik's mind as he makes enough scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast to power their collection of children and teenagers. As he slices the fruit for their usual industrial-size breakfast fruit salad, a familiar sleepy consciousness unfurls in the back of his mind.

_Good morning,_ he says, and pops a slice of honeydew melon in his mouth as the first round of students tear themselves away from morning cartoons to forage for breakfast.

_Morning, darling. Hard at work, as usual. I notice you've read the invitation._

Erik allows himself a brief smile, then levels a glare at Bobby until he adds a spoonful of fruit to his plate, piled high with eggs and sausage. _Come to breakfast. I have an idea I want to discuss._

Twenty minutes later, Charles wheels himself into the kitchen, still wrapped in his dressing gown despite the late hour of the morning. "I hope Angel and Raven return from their trip soon," Charles says, taking his customary place at the kitchen table, where Erik has already set up a plate. "You've gotten up at a terrible hour every weekend for a month. I salute your commitment to the children's nutrition, but I question whether you and Angel are the only ones to share such sentiment."

"I like doing it," Erik admits, voice gruff with the confession. Years of home living have not mitigated the horrors of his childhood. Every meal he makes is a small ceremony, a rite for protection and a blessing for his ever-growing family alike. Charles can't reach Erik from his position at the table, but he does give him one of his meltingly sincere looks, one that promises to do whatever it takes to shoulder a portion of Erik's pain.

_I love you,_ Erik says, and Charles gives him a brilliant smile. Aloud, he adds, "I want to take the children to the Museum of Mutant History."

Charles chews on a piece of toast, thoughtful. "I doubt we'll be able to take them to the party, but perhaps we might arrange something during the day. I do love the city during the holidays. Besides, it's been ages since our last field trip."

"Apple-picking six weeks ago is not 'ages,' as I'm sure you recall," Erik says dryly. Coaxing Marie out of the tree with the wasp's nest required four adults and caused an early resurgence in Raven's wanderlust. "It sounds like we're agreed. I'll write Rachel and ask whether we can pop in on the same day as the opening party."

"Mmm. I suspect we'll enjoy the party more."

"I never enjoy parties."

Charles raises an eyebrow along with his cup of tea. "You never enjoy field trips, either."

"This one will be different," Erik insists. "It's important. It's about _us_ , Charles, our history."

"Yes, I do remember all your speeches when we first heard of the idea." Charles crooks his finger at him. "You're terribly attractive when you're fired up about the cause. Come here."

Erik crosses the kitchen, bending to kiss Charles's already upturned face. Years of philosophical and political dissent, a disastrous rift, a terrible accident, hundreds of petty arguments over nothing--nothing has ever dimmed their love for one another. Kissing Charles always feels like coming home.

*

"I'd be delighted to give your school a tour," Rachel says over the phone, and thus ensues a flurry of trip planning. Erik has met Rachel in person a grand total of three times, but he likes her. She's no nonsense to the point where others find her brusque, though she's more than capable of cosying up to potential donors. Her mutation is invisible, a complicated variation on eidetic memory, and she says it led to her dedication to preserving mutant history. "It was traumatizing when I was young, realizing that other people forget things," she said during their first conversation. "It was worse when I learned that there are those who would erase history."

"Some history ought to be fixed in people's memory," Erik replied with a grim smile, and Rachel reciprocated with the smile of one certain she's acquired funding and resources for her pet project.

The morning of the field trip dawns cold but clear, the sunlight sharpening the landscape. As the students pile onto the bus, they chatter about what they'll see and do in New York City. Most of the talk seems to be about shopping and food and Christmas lights, provoking a flare of irritation in Erik. He'll have to give them another lecture on the cultural importance of this trip once he can get Marie, who has never been to the city, to let go of his leg.

"You won't get lost. You're wearing metal," he says, helpless before her large, fearful eyes. Marie usually prefers Charles, but many of the little mutants he's known over the years seek out Erik when they need protection. The much-vaunted innocence of children still recognizes violence.

_Goodness, you're cranky,_ Charles says. _Marie, my dear, come sit with me. Alex and Darwin will meet us in the city once we're done in the museum, and I know Darwin can't wait to give you a piggyback ride._

Marie scampers over to the seat closest to where Charles sits, wheelchair strapped securely to the bus. (Hank designed the bus with a few modifications, though it looks like an ordinary school bus.) Charles directs a fond wash of warmth into Erik's mind even as he beams at Marie and begins elaborating on Darwin's plans for his not-so-secretly favorite Xavier student.

Traffic ruins Erik's second history lecture. It's on one of his favorite parts, too, the push for legislation following the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Depending on his mood, he can use the lecture as a segue to various contemporary issues: America's considerable lack of mutant rights progress when compared to other nations, the lack of mutant representation in elected positions, even the fact that they're trapped in traffic right now rather than on the train. It was a relief and a triumph when mutants no longer had to hide their very existence, but drummed up insurance costs and fearmongering still bar mutants from access to public transit. He and Charles could push for using the train for their school field trips--hell, Charles can even afford to pay the ridiculous amount of insurance--but Erik has yet to carve out the time for the legal headache it will entail. The demands of running a school have forced him to learn how to choose his battles.

"Compromise," he mutters darkly, and considers crushing the line of traffic before him with his mind. The temptation becomes stronger when Jubilee starts up a rousing chorus of "Old MacDonald Had a Farm."

They pull up to the museum with no major traffic incidents, however, and Erik's old excitement rushes back at the sight of the small building bearing the placard MUSEUM OF MUTANT HISTORY. Rachel has a 25-year plan for buying out the offices next door and expanding the museum further, along with a number of educational outreach programs, but for now--just the reality of the building, the fact that it _exists_ \--

A hand slides into his and an arm slides around his waist: Charles and Ororo, flanking him. Erik smiles down into the impossible blue of Charles's eyes and then squeezes Ororo's shoulders. He hasn't seen enough of her lately; small children have the distressing tendency to grow older and less underfoot. Frankly, he's impressed she put down one of her ridiculous books about teenage twins long enough to hug him in public.

_Erik,_ Charles chides him.

"Thanks," Erik says to both of them, then lets go.

Ororo presses a kiss to his cheek. "Let's go! It's cold out here."

Inside, the Museum of Mutant History features an entrance hall with a shelf for informational pamphlets, a large desk, and brightly lit portraits of famous mutants throughout history, including one of Erik and Charles in their younger days. Erik suppresses a smile when some of the younger students begin whispering about how that picture _looks_ like Professor Xavier but the picture has _hair._

"Yes, it's true. I wasn't always bald," Charles says with a laugh, then touches his smoothly shaved head. "Oh, for the glory days of my youth."

Erik's favorite part of the entrance display, though, is the large sculpture at the top of the stairs. It's an abstract work of metal, a series of twisting motions preserved in steel, and it commands the attention by virtue of its positioning as well as its determined press upwards, where the last wave of metal unfurls like a banner. The sculpture is too far away for him to read the proclamation written at the bottom in various languages, but he can feel the words pressed into the metal: _For those unnamed, unspoken, and unforgotten._

A minute or two later, Rachel clacks down the hallway in her heels. Her suit is as crisply pressed as always, but a single strand of dark hair has worked its way out of her updo and into her eyes. She brushes it to the side, then gives their group a polished smile that develops a hint of genuine pleasure when she turns to Charles and Erik. "Welcome! My apologies for not meeting you outside. One of our other donors has a daughter in a local school, so you'll see that class here as well. But come, let's start the tour."

They follow Rachel down the first hallway. "The exhibits are more thematic than chronological, though of course there's a sequence," Rachel says, turning to address them with practiced ease as she leads on. "The first exhibit concerns itself with the science of mutation itself, but written from a mutant perspective. The work of Dr. Xavier and Dr. McCoy features prominently, of course, as two of the foremost experts on genetic mutation as well as prominent voices within the mutant community."

The exhibit is more a layperson's introduction to mutation than anything new to Erik, but he takes in Rachel's lecture with a pleased, possessive feeling. This is Charles's thesis from years ago, refined by further research and the advance of science. Charles nods along with Rachel's words, though he must be restraining himself from jumping in to augment the discussion--this _is_ the field he teaches, after all, and Charles does love to listen to the sound of his own voice.

_You like it, too,_ Charles murmurs, the slant of his smile coy.

_Except when you use your expertise for dreadful pickup lines._

The children spend a few minutes poking around the displays and reading the placards. (Or being read the placards, in the case of Marie.) Scott has a notebook in hand, but his pencil is still in his pocket as he and Jean stare into each other's eyes. They've been dating for a few years now, and Erik prefers not to know the reason for their resurgence in puppy love. Jubilee gets into trouble for touching the DNA model that takes up most of one corner and spends several minutes sulking at Charles's side.

Two exhibits later, they run into the group from the other school and Rachel's harried-looking assistant. The group is full of bored-looking teenagers wearing school uniforms and mulish expressions, plus one teacher so old he appears to be dozing as he walks. "Dr. Keller, their bus is late, so we're walking through again," the assistant says, one eye twitching. "And look! It's Dr. Xavier and Mr. Lehnsherr, also known as Professor X and Magneto! History come to life!"

"Why don't you go watch for their bus, Daisy," Rachel says, her tone of voice pleasant but her inflection providing no room for argument. "If you don't mind, I'm just going to check on this group. Most of my lecture is finished, and you know the rest, anyway. You lived it."

As if on cue, Kitty shrieks, "Gross, this is a love letter!" Bobby and Jubilee add their own chorus of _ewwww_ after.

"Inside voices in the museum," Charles reminds them, but he wheels himself over to inspect the display. "And for heaven's sake, this is just a letter about the creation of our school."

"But it says _love, Erik_ at the bottom and that's Professor Lehnsherr's name and it's written to you!"

"Well," Charles says, and pauses to think. "That's just how Erik signs his letters to me." His smile is amused, but the tips of his ears are pink. Erik can feel a flush of his own creeping down the back of his neck. There are at least five of his personal letters on display in this exhibit, letters preserved as historical artifacts but more personal than he perhaps realized. The world knows that Professor X and Magneto are married in all but name, but it's none of the world's business that he signs every letter to Charles with _love, Erik._ The written word has always been a more comfortable medium for Erik to express his emotions, particularly back during that time period, when he and Charles were still on tenterhooks with one another, the shadow of Cuba and a single bullet lying between them. One of these letters, he realizes belatedly, features the fourth time he ever told Charles he loved him.

At least the children have refrained from further commentary. It makes sense; they live with the reality of Erik and Charles's romance every day. The students from the other school keep whispering to themselves despite Rachel's best efforts to liven up their second time through the exhibits, and one particularly annoying boy keeps popping his gum.

"No food or drink in the museum includes chewing gum," Rachel says, pleasant as ever. The boy pops his gum again, defiant. "I would hate to mention your disregard for history to your uncle."

Erik gives a mental shudder as Rachel stares down the teenager until he finally pulls the wrapper from his pocket and spits the gum into it. He despises teenagers in general; in particular and with proper training, they can be tolerated. His students wouldn't dream of driving a museum director's assistant to the brink of insanity, and would never be so crass as to chew gum in the face of an important cultural milestone for mutantkind. He turns away from the letter display to take them in--

\--and his students look nearly as bored as the others. The younger ones are beginning to fidget, which means that poking-induced fights are an approximate fifteen minutes away. Marie has her thumb in her mouth, despite all the progress they've made on her thumb-sucking. Ororo appears to be studying one of the museum's pamphlet's, but a closer glimpse reveals a novel hidden behind the glossy informational text. Scott still has his notebook out, but he's written nothing on the pages. He and Jean, who usually has some sense, are holding hands and staring into each other's eyes _again_ \--that is, when they're not sneaking discreet glances at their watches.

"They're bored," Erik murmurs. "All the struggle and sacrifice chronicled here, and they're thinking about shopping and ice skating."

"Wouldn't you?" Charles asks, equally soft. "If you grew up with entire classes on mutant history, surrounded by your own kind? Scott did take a few notes, you know, but then he realized that this information is everything he's been studying for your final. Besides, everyone is hungry after all this walking, or rolling, as it were."

"Food?" asks Bobby, with the finely honed instincts of little boys everywhere. "Are we going to eat lunch soon?"

"Right after we thank Dr. Keller for her very nice tour of this very nice museum," says Erik over the sour taste of disappointment. He and Charles will have to discuss this later, after the business of teaching is concluded for the day. To their credit, all fidgeting stops and all contraband books are tucked away as the children line up to thank Rachel in their politest voices.

"It was a pleasure having you, and I hope you come again when things are more settled," Rachel says, then nods at her assistant, waving frantically from down the hall. "I believe the other school's bus is here. Charles, Erik, I'll see you at the opening party tonight."

"Onward to lunch!" Charles says in his most cheerful voice, but he presses Erik's hand again as they leave.

*

As soon as they arrive at the party, of course, Charles gets spirited away by colleagues he hasn't seen in five years. "I won't be a moment, darling," he promises.

"No, you'll be an hour," Erik grouses, and attacks the buffet table. It's not terribly polite of him to steal all the salmon canapés along with the requisite glass of champagne, but he's been abandoned by his date after a long, tiring day in the city. He retreats to the sculpture at the top of the stairs, which he can at least turn into a weapon if he needs to make a dramatic escape.

"Antisocial as ever, I see."

The voice is light and dry as white wine, and it takes Erik a moment to place it before he turns to the speaker. "Hello, Moira. I didn't know you were in town, otherwise Charles and I would have invited you on our field trip."

"Sorry to have missed it," Moira says, not sounding sorry at all. "You know I love the children, but not chasing after them in public places. How are you otherwise? You must be thrilled; this place looks incredible." She steals a salmon canapé off Erik's plate and laughs at his scowl. He's missed her. There aren't enough people at the mansion who refuse to let him intimidate them.

"I wish the children had been as thrilled earlier today," Erik admits, taking a sip of champagne. "Charles says it's because none of the history is new to them. I thought the older ones would have some understanding of the meaning of it all, though."

Moira looks around her, taking in the displays and the finely dressed crowd alike. "Some of your students are a little young for this place, aren't they? Trust me, that kind of thing is infectious, and you're speaking to the woman who taught herself Russian as a teenager. For fun."

"Why Russian?" Erik wants to know, and that sparks a long discussion of Russian novels. It's been years since he's read _Anna Karenina_ , which is apparently a yearly reread of Moira's, and Moira spends ten solid minutes grilling him about multilingual puns in _Lolita_. "I haven't read it," he protests.

"This is about language, not plot," Moira says, and continues anyway.

Another glass of champagne and yet another book later, Charles makes his way up the wheelchair ramp to join them. "We're a smash hit, I'm afraid," he says to Erik, but his grin lights his face. Charles does enjoy being the center of attention, though he's no longer winning drinking contests in bars. "People keep asking me questions about how we developed our curriculum and our letters. They find you very romantic, by the way, so don't talk to them and strip them of their illusions."

"I had no intention," Erik says, his spirits in better shape after food, drink, and conversation that for once does not contain the phrase, _No, you can't do that because I said so, and sulking won't work._ Most often he applies the phrase to the children, but Charles has his moments.

"Hello, Charles," Moira says, and bends to kiss Charles on the cheek. "How's life at the madhouse? Erik tells me you had quite the field trip earlier today."

"Mad as ever. Shall we take a turn round the museum? We didn't get much of a chance to enjoy the displays while looking after the children. No explosions and no deaths resulted, though, so I count the trip as a resounding success."

Despite their obvious resemblance to many photographs and newspaper clippings on display (as well as a small statue, horrifyingly enough), their fellow party guests keep their distance as they walk through the various exhibits. Erik's previous enthusiasm trickles back as Moira peppers them with questions, and all three of them share a good laugh over the long, ridiculous list of historical figures various tabloids and History Channel specials have concluded were mutants.

"I had a considerable number of fantasies about Elvis as a youth, but Elvis the mutant was never one of them," Charles says, wiping an actual tear of laughter from his eye. "What is it about the man that make people want to make up stories about him?"

Moira says something sarcastic in response, but Erik is distracted by Rachel laying a hand on his arm. "Good to see you enjoying yourself," she says, smile so wide she might actually be considered beaming, an adjective Erik rarely applies to people who resemble him personality-wise. "Charles told me earlier that you'll probably want to leave before the speech, and that you hate being publicly thanked anyway. Consider my private thanks part one of your gift, and this as part two." She hands over a shiny bag full of white tissue paper and a bottle of quite expensive gin.

"Thank you," Erik says. "I suspect a certain someone told you of my fondness for martinis. The realization of your vision is marvelous, as is your patience with schoolchildren."

"I could say the same." Rachel's expression softens, and a hint of color actually rises in her cheeks. "Your legacy in particular means a great deal to my family, and to me personally. I wanted to go to the same school as my brothers, but it was always a great comfort to know that the Academy was only a phone call away, and I wouldn't be the only Jewish mutant there." Then she smooths her hair, despite its return to its normal immaculate state. "All right, sentiment over."

"Not quite," Erik says, voice gone a trifle rough around the edges. "I'd like to hug you, if I might."

Rachel's response is wordless; she throws her arms around him and gives him a tight squeeze. He gets one in himself, then lets her return to the other party guests, many of them people who might require slightly more persuasion to continue donating to the program.

When Erik turns back to his companions, it's just Charles left there. "Moira's catching up with Hank," Charles says. He takes one of Erik's hands and presses a kiss to his knuckles. "Shall we adjourn? It isn't often that we have a hotel room to ourselves and no children down the hall."

"I'll send Alex and Darwin the largest gift basket possible," Erik promises. "Let's go to bed."


End file.
